


Sweet Iniquity

by Anonymous



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Incest, LITERALLY, Mild Angst, Smut, Total Trash, Twincest, but it's flowery smut so that makes it okay, i'm so ashamed, i'm trash, my god, reggies in this for two sentences
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2018-11-13 05:42:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11178261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A series of lurid tales from the twisted lives of Cheryl and Jason Blossom.





	1. Chapter 1

“Nervous, Jay Jay?”

 Jason Blossom rolls his eyes. He runs a hand through his wavy ginger hair and turns to face his twin sister. The smirk on her face is insufferable. As usual. And yet, it never fails to make him smile. He’s just slipped on his Riverdale Bulldogs jersey. The armor and helmet sit on the bed beside him. He waits, as usual, for the last minute to put everything on. Hates wearing that shit.

 He stands.

 “Cheryl, when have I _ever_ been nervous?”

 She stands at the door of his room, leaning on the frame in that cocky, in-charge-of-the-situation way, arms and ankles crossed.

 “Ooh. Too strong and manly for emotions, aren’t you? I’m so impressed!”

 Cheryl saunters into the room, throwing an extra bit of sway into her hips. Like he wouldn’t notice. She tosses a lock of red hair over her shoulder with a flourish. Ever filled with school spirit, she is already clad in her River Vixen’s outfit. Of course.

 Jason fights the urge to sneak a look down, because he knows that was exactly what she wants, and damn if he would let her win again. Yes, he fights the urge to look down at the skirt that covered about half his sister’s thighs, leaving the rest of her long, toned, creamy legs _wonderfully_ expos- _damn it_!

 She catches him staring, of course.

 “You little fucking…” he breaths.

 Cheryl steps closer, her ruby lips pressed into a satisfied little smile. Closer, so that their bodies are but a few inches apart, and Jason can feel too well the heat she radiates.

 “Little fucking _what_?”

 His eyes narrow to predatory slits.

 “You know, I hate you sometimes. I really, really do.”

 Cheryl’s smile widens. Her big brown eyes flash. She rises on her toes, and pressing her hands to his chest, draws her face close to her brother’s.

 “No you don’t,” she purrs, her breath hot on Jason’s cheek. “You _love_ me.”

 Without warning, he wraps an arm around her slender waist and yanks her off of her feet. Her squeal of surprise cuts short as he presses his lips against hers in a sharp, fierce kiss.

 Jason finds himself somewhere between furious and very, _very_ aroused. He has a ritual practiced before each of the Bulldogs’ games. A very important ritual that consists of him thinking of the upcoming game and _nothing_ but the upcoming game, until the second he steps onto the field and feels the heat of the floodlights on his skin.

 His sister _knows_ that, and she _knows_ how important it is, and that is _precisely_ why she’s come along to screw it up. Because Cheryl can drive him insane in a few seconds like no other girl at Riverdale. No other girl he’d ever met for that matter. And it’s was sick and wrong and distracting and he hates it and she knows it and she loves it.

 Jason sure as hell isn’t thinking about the game now. No, it’s the furthest thing from his mind. He can’t imagine the texture of the pigskin in his hand, or the wet grass beneath his feet, or the crunch as he lays a shoulder into some poor Baxter Raven’s ribs. All he can think of is ripping Cheryl’s stupid little Vixen’s outfit off and feeling the warmth of her soft, pale skin against his own. Tangling his hands in her silky red hair. Staring into her big, gorgeous brown eyes as she begged and sighed with delight.

 Cheryl allows her brother to lift her from the ground, wrapping her slender legs around his waist and her arms around his broad shoulders. She puts her all into the kiss, relishing the ferocity and the tenderness he shows at once.

 And then, of course, she breaks it. Cheryl pulls her face back from Jason’s, slides her legs from his waist, and frees herself from his embrace.

 He stares at her in frustration. His great blue eyes are wide, his alabaster skin still flushed and he looks for all the world like he’s been stabbed.

 “What the hell, Cheryl?”

 She wags her finger.

 “ _You_ almost made me forget! We both have a game to get too. The Bulldogs and the Vixens would be lost without us!” she cries, voice dripping with mock concern.

 Jason balked.

 “ _I’m_ the one that made _you_ forget?” He steps forward, reaching out for her again. “Look, fuck the game. Let Mantle or Andrews-“

 She jumps back, dodging him.

 “I don’t think so. I won’t have you shirking your responsibilities. Not on my watch.”

 Jason shakes his head, staring in disbelief.

 “You are evil…”

 “Awww…don’t feel too bad Jay Jay. Tell you what,” Cheryl steps closer again, this time allowing Jason to put his arms around her, but denying him another kiss. “You go out there and win, and afterwards I’m going to make sure you have a hell of a night.”

 Jason raises an eyebrow, cautious.

 “And if we lose?”

 She slips her arms around his neck, and leans in to whisper into his ear. It is just as well he can’t see the devilish little gleam in her eyes.

 “Well, then you go to bed hungry.”

 He chuckles, despite himself. And then his face immediately sours at the prospect of actually going to bed unrelieved. Still, she knows him too well. He loves a good bet, damn it.

 “Deal.”

 She smiles again, and gives him a quick, chaste peck on the lips.

 

* * *

 “Are you ready?”

They are the last two in the hall. Behind them, the doors to the boys’ and girls’ locker rooms slowly swing closed. Through the school gym’s walls, they hear the indistinct, droning voices of the crowd packing the bleachers. Greendalers as well as Riverdalers have turned out in force tonight. The Baxter High Ravens have been Riverdale’s great archrivals since the foundations of the two schools some seven decades ago. Neither team can survive without the other challenging them to equal, to outdo. It’s become a bit of symbiotic relationship, to tell the truth.

“Of course I am.”

The rest of the Bulldogs will be lining up on the edge of the field now, waiting for their captain, just as the Vixens will be awaiting theirs.

Jason feels the exhilaration of the crowd outside, its sheer energy coursing through his veins. The thrill of a good game. Of a competition. He imagines it was a feeling old as time. 

Yes, few sensations are older than that one.

Except one.

 “Gonna win for me?” Cheryl questions.

 “Ever see what happens when a dog gets hold of a bird?” Jason smiles. “It’s not pretty.”

 

* * *

 

The game turns out to be a rather lopsided one.

 Six to twenty-one in favor of the Riverdale Bulldogs. The Baxter High Ravens slink home to Greendale, defeated, and chased by the taunts of opponents and disappointed supporters alike.

 “ _RI-VER-DALE! RI-VER-DALE! RI-VER-DALE!”_

The chant blows hot threw the open-air stadium, charged with the thrill of victory.

 Jason doesn’t hear much of it. Even if it weren’t for the chatter of the football team packing the locker room, still high on their win, his mind is elsewhere.

 “Hey.” Reggie puts a hand on his shoulder. “We’re gonna go celebrate. Grab something to eat and then head over to my house. I’ve got a shit ton of beers left over from last Saturday. Coming?

 He peels the kid’s hand away.

 “Sorry. Prior engagement.”

 Reggie shrugs. Then a little smile comes upon his face.

 “Got a date?”

 “Something like that.”

 Reggie winks.

 “Have fun.”

 

* * *

 

 

 He does.

 Enough fun that he doesn’t bother to even lock his bedroom door before pinning Cheryl to his bed and ripping the stupid Vixen’s outfit off of her. He tosses the blue and gold uniform into a heap in the corner, leaving his sister clad in her stark white underclothes. Jason smiles. His turn to be cruel.

 Jason slips a finger between the band of Cheryl’s underwear and the soft skin of her hip. She gasps at the sudden intrusion, gripping his wrist reflexively.

 "How much did these cost?” he questions, bringing his lips close to her ear. Jason runs his free hand down his sister’s taught, toned stomach. He smiles at the shiver it sends through her body.

 “A lot,” she replies, voice breaking.

 “You see,” he nibbles her earlobe, gently. “You’re sinking our family fortune into clothes I’m just going to shred, anyway.”

 On cue, he yanks on her underwear. Hard. The band snaps, and he pulls away the ruined article in one swift motion. Cheryl cries out in shock and slaps her brother’s shoulder.

 “You _ass_!”

 He laughs, and preempts any further complaints with a messy, violent kiss. Her anger dissolves into it, sighing in surrender as she digs her fingers into his shoulders and crushes her lips against his. She fumbles, desperate to maintain their kiss as she fights to pull Jason’s jersey away. Jason tosses aside Cheryl’s ruined underwear and helps, slipping his shirt off and sending it sailing into the pile with her own.

 Jason slides an arm around her slender waist, drawing her as close to him as he possibly can. He feels and relishes the sensation of her bare skin against his own. He unhooks and discards her bra, savoring the dark satisfaction of finally doing away with the last of the troublesome clothes between them. She’s so soft and so warm and so _perfect_ that Jason finds himself again wondering how it’s possible that he’s so goddamn lucky. If he had to he would trade everything else in his privileged life, this house, his money, his car, his _friends,_ everything for these brief, heavenly moments.

 Whatever guilt they carry with them, stewing in the back of their minds as they go about their perfect, clean-cut, all-American lives vanishes like it was never there in these flashes of burning passion. All notions of right and wrong and sin and taboo are laughably inconsequential. Those are just _words._ This is real.

 So real.

 Cheryl pushes Jason’s pants from his narrow hips and down his legs, the fire in her stomach demanding an _immediate_ release. Jason’s hand shoots out, grabbing hold of her wrist, foiling her sloppy bid at undressing him.

 To speak, he breaks their ongoing kiss, eliciting from her a whine of discontent.

 “Eager, huh? Yeah, so was I.”

 “Fuck you,” she snarls, struggling to free her hand.

 He rakes his teeth down her lips, down her slender neck, planting a soft, sweet kiss on her collarbone. “Sure, sure. Just hold your horses.” Jason runs a hand through the locks of ginger hair that fall in tangles across her lovely face. “You fucking blue-balled me for the length of a football game.” He growls. “And that was a _long_ football game.”

 “I’m sorry,” she whimpers, voice meek. She really _is_. Sorry of course, that it’s come back to bite her, that is. “Let’s make up?” she offers, her words soft and sweet. Like maple syrup.

 Cheryl makes another bid to free her wrist and resume tearing her brother’s pants away. Jason’s iron grip isn’t budging.

 “That wasn’t a very convincing apology.” He smiles. His unoccupied hand releases her tresses of red hair, trailing over her perfect, pert breasts, down to the gentle swell of her hips. “Let’s see if we can get a better one out of you, huh?”

 Cheryl drops the contrite act.

 “You son of a bitch. Jason Blossom, if you toy with me one second longer I will _eviscerate_ you.”

 With little warning, Jason slips a hand between her legs. Cheryl’s sharp, sudden intake of breath suggests he’s done something right. She feels him slowly push her legs apart, and she gladly complies, happily opening herself to him.

 Finally, he releases her hand. Feverishly, she at last manages to push his pants down his waist, and yank his boxers out of the way. Jason holds her. Tight. Close. His light blue eyes narrow, locking with her brown ones. He can feel her breathing, hot, heavy, excited. He can feel her heart beating, pounding against her chest like a war drum. He can feel his own heart offering a matching rhythm.

 He can feel them beating together. Bound in perfect synchronicity. United for eternity, making them as one, since the day they came into the world.

 “You’re so beautiful. God, I love you,” he breathes. All the games are done. He can’t think to play or tease anymore, and neither can she. Cheryl plants her svelte hands against his well-muscled chest. Her mouth falls slightly open, as if she wishes to say something and yet cannot find the words. She really doesn’t have to.

 “I love you too,” she finally affirms, and it feels so wonderful to say. It feels so genuine, so real. It’s not practiced or rehearsed, like every word that comes from her mouth when she plays the role of haughty, rich heiress at Riverdale. Or when she plays the suppliant, dutiful daughter for the sake of their domineering parents. It comes directly from the well of the spirit. Giving voice to the deepest passions and the most tender of feelings within her. She _does_ love him. More than anything.

 Maybe it’s the only thing that’s real anymore.

 Jason steadies his hands on her waist. Cheryl rocks her hips against him. A soft, eager whimper escapes her lips.

 When he finally enters her she cries out in joy and satisfaction.

 Jason wonders for a moment if their mother and father are home. Half out of his mind with desire and anticipation, he can’t remember if he’d even seen any of the cars when he pulled in. And then he realizes he doesn’t really care. Fuck it. Clifford Blossom and his incessant, invasive quest to twist and bend him into a proper son, into an heir apparent, can go to hell. Ditto for Penelope and the possessive contempt she shows her offspring in the place of the maternal love every child craves and deserves.

 For the moment, he has in his arms and in his bed the person he’s known was his soulmate since he could understand the concept. For the moment, for just a moment in their fake, fucked up, parodies of lives, everything is perfect. It will be gone soon. But soon is not now.

 Jason buries his face in the hollow where his sister’s neck meets her shoulder as he moves, slowly and purposefully inside her. He inhales, savoring her scent, the sweet perfume of her ginger hair mixed with the heady sweat of passion. Cheryl hooks her legs around his back, urging him deeper inside of her, begging to be fulfilled, to be sated.

 A detached part of her remembers that this is _evil_. That every people on earth has proscribed precisely this type of love. That this is supposed to be sick and twisted and simply _wrong_.

 She remembers delivering all of those protests, and more, to Jason, as they lay in the afterglow one night, the specter of guilt hanging over their heads. He’d fallen silent for a moment, thinking. Then he’d said that the Pharaohs of old took their sisters as their brides, and asked her to imagine if anyone would have dared tell Pharaoh he was a sick fuck to his face. She’d laughed, and he’d laughed, and she’d kissed him, and everything had been okay.

 And it was okay now.

 Jason’s movements grow faster, less expert, more frantic, as he begins to near his peak. His red hair is slicked with sweat, the same sweat that soaks the contours of his handsome, chiseled face. Cheryl brings up a hand, gently, as if she’s scared to frighten him. She caresses his cheek, silently urging him to go on, to finish, but to remember her. His bright blue eyes fix her with a stare that manages to be at once hungry and yet endlessly soft and caring. His fingers dig into her, hard enough that it should be painful. Instead it only makes her quiver in delight.

 He kisses her again, desperate and almost predatory. She tangles her hands in his hair and crushes their foreheads together. The awful, wonderful knot in her belly tightens, and yet prepares at once for that fantastic release she knows will come. Each beautiful motion he makes brings her closer and closer to that precipice, and she closes her eyes and relaxes every muscle in her lithe, long body, preparing throw herself from it with all the abandon of a suicide.

 Finally-

 “ _Fuck!_ ”

 Everything disappears. Every iota of energy is sucked from Cheryl’s body as she feels an explosion tear through her entire being. She shakes so violently it’s almost frightening, trembling as she holds Jason even tighter, if that were possible. Everything vanishes into the aether except the two of them; bodies and spirit bound more firmly than any other two in heaven or earth or elsewhere. She cannot even find the strength to cry out again. She lets out something that sounds almost like a strangled sob, and then finally she falls still, letting the waves of impossible exhaustion wash over her.

 Jason finishes soon after. He buries his face in her shoulder, spilling everything inside of her. His ragged breathing coming in tandem with hers. They lie together, absolutely spent. Neither wants to do anything. Not move. Not speak. Not breathe. The room crackles with energy and beautiful fury.

  “You…” he finally begins, exhausted. “You’re perfect. More than perfect.”

 She runs a hand down his face, pushing a lock of sweaty hair out of the way. Cheryl feels, as always, a slight twinge of guilt, the ugly feeling that Riverdale and the world and God himself can see and despise them, but it’s just as soon wiped away by the light of her brother’s liquid blue eyes.

 “There’s a special pit in Hell for us…” she breathes.

 Jason chuckles.

 “Cheryl, please. We’re Blossoms. They’ll give us a suite.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I uploaded this at like 4 AM because I knew that if I waited until I woke up my sanity would return and I would delete it instead of sharing it with the world like a jackass. 
> 
> Somebody kill me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote another short Blossomcest fic and decided that instead of cluttering up ao3 with a hundred such stories I'll probably just add them to this one from now on.
> 
> This chapter's significantly less smutty than the last one, though it was also written at 4:00 AM, that wonderful time when I begin to lose touch with reality, the creative juices start flowing, and incest starts looking just fine and dandy.

Cheryl Blossom wonders if their parents suspect anything.

The Blossom twins are both consummate liars. The poor townies down in Riverdale could never hope to match either of them in their enviable knack for spinning a quick, believable falsehood or a convincing excuse in the briefest of time.

Cliff and Penelope are a different matter. For though Cheryl and Jason may be fantastic deceivers, it’s their parents that taught it to them. It was they that raised them and tutored them in the arts of deception, taught them how to lie and mislead and dissemble their little hearts out.

Yeah. If anyone can see through one of the twins’ masterful charades, it’s their parents.

Of course, besides the almost preternatural ability of their parents to both weave and detect lies, there’s also the matter of the help. The Blossoms have _always_ , since time immemorial, maintained a small army of maids, nannies, groundskeepers, and tutors, to shoulder the more unpleasant tasks that accompany parenthood and homeownership. Many of those hired hands have been more like real parents to Cheryl and Jason than their mother and father. It was after all a maid named Rosaline-missed as sorely Cheryl is capable of-who taught her to apply makeup when she was twelve (Penelope couldn’t be bothered, of course). It’s a skill she’s never forgotten, as her full, perpetually ruby red lips can attest. It was a bygone tutor named Anselm who would toss the football with Jason when his father was unavailable (which was always).

But the two know not to trust them entirely. They are, in the end, extensions of their ever-watchful progenitors, so long as they remain on the Blossom payroll. So if Cheryl and Jason want to hide something from dear mother and father, it means they have to hide it from everyone that works for them, too.

So, Cheryl can’t help the cruel little feeling that they know _something_. Maybe they notice the soft, longing looks she and Jason send each other as they suffer through yet another torturous Blossom family dinner, conducted under the iron dictatorship of their father. Maybe they catch on to the fact that the nights Cheryl’s bedroom lays empty are the same nights that Jason’s door is locked fast. Maybe they wonder if it’s really appropriate for siblings to curl up before the fireplace like they do, cheeks red and eyes bright, and whispering private, gentle words into each other’s ears.

She actually brings it up to Jason once, as they lie together in the warm aftermath of another glorious night. Cheryl lays her head onto her brother’s bare chest, perfect red hair spilling out around her lovely face like a brilliant halo, and she asks him quite simply: “Think mom and dad ever get suspicious?”

 Jason Blossom, as always, a boy of very few words, responds quite simply: “Nah.”

“You sure? Sometimes I just wonder ‘what if they found out’ and…ugh…you know.”

“You worry about the worst of things at the worst of times.”

“Hey…” she retorts. “I’m just looking out for us. Dad would lynch you. Or me. Or both.”

“In no time we’ll be 18, then we can get out of here and forget this town ever existed. And good riddance.” He waves a mock goodbye to Riverdale. Then he turns and kisses his sister flush on the lips. “’Til then, why don’t I help you stop worrying for the night?”

She smiles. “Do your best, Jason Blossom.”

And he does, though once the night is over and the unwelcome rays of sunlight come stabbing through Jason’s bedroom curtains, the worries and apprehension return to her. She tosses an arm over her eyes and groans in displeasure. And then she remembers it’s a school day and it gets even worse.

* * *

School is an interesting place. In a way, it’s far worse than home, thanks to the throngs of teenagers and inescapable crowds, what little shreds of privacy they enjoy at Thornhill are cruelly ripped away here. In another sense, there’s far less scrutiny leveled at them, for none of the faculty or students here can match their parents for perceptiveness.

But still, students like to talk, even more than adults do. Jokes about the Blossom twins are a dime a dozen in the halls of Riverdale High, and Cheryl and Jason are fine with that so long as there’s no chance anyone _really_ suspects there’s truth to the rumors. Cheryl isn’t sure whether being caught by their peers would be worse or better than being caught by their parents. Either way, their lives would be well and truly ruined, but at the very least their parents wouldn’t make them the target of Riverdale’s rumor mill for years to come. It would be cathartic for the town, of course. Confirmation that the Blossom family was just as screwed up as everyone secretly hoped. Make all of the sanctimonious townsfolk feel just a little better about their own travesties of lives for just a little while.

Jason doesn’t not seem bothered either way, for he develops a penchant for dragging her off during free periods or the lunch hour and finding a deserted hallway or an empty teacher’s room far from the commotion and bustle of the student body on break. Cheryl used to offer token protests that ‘we’ll get caught’ but after day after day of trying classes and the inane chatter of her braindead cheerleading minions, it becomes really hard to really say ‘no’. When he hikes her skirts up around her waist and runs his hands over her bare skin words fail her, anyway.

Sometimes their trysts will pass without a single word from her taciturn brother, even as she recovers her breath and comes down from her peak and whispers, ‘I love you’. But he’ll smooth out her hair and give her a tender kiss and that’ll be much more than enough.

“What would we do if Grundy walked in right now?” Jason jokes one afternoon, as they cuddle together, tucked away in a dusty corner of the music room, breathing heavy.

“Kill her,” Cheryl replies, smiling. “Bury her body in the football field. We’d have no other recourse, obviously.”

“Blossom ferocity,” He laughs.

She leans back against his shoulder and closes her eyes.

“Well the only other option is letting her go spill the beans to Weatherbee: ‘hey I think the Blossom twins are _Flowers-In-The-Attic-_ ing in my classroom’. And we both know this town _thrives_ on gossip.”

“Yeah.”

Her smile widens.

“We’d probably have to kill everyone else in this wing of the school, too. Just to be sure.”

They stand, adjusting their wrinkled clothing and steadying their heartbeats and eliminating all evidence of their transgression.

Jason pokes his head into the hall, left and right, and confirms the coast is clear. They slip out of the classroom, and grudgingly replace their masks of normalcy. A few seconds later the bell rings to signal the beginning of fourth period.

* * *

 

 

Then there’s the Twilight Drive In. An indispensable part of Riverdale’s soul, if you were to ask local gloom fountain Jughead Jones, or a decaying shambles not good for much more than getting drunk and scoring cheap weed if you asked more or less anyone else. One of the few places in town free from the eyes of both their parents and peers, if you asked the Blossom twins (not that you would, and not that they’d deign to give you an answer if you did).

Cliff and Penelope never approved of their children attending the place. Whether it’s out of concern for their safety or concern that Blossoms should not ever be seen in such a _common_ place, who can really say? But of course, that doesn’t stop them from making it one of their favored haunts. In fact, thanks to their regular attendance, they might very well be the town’s foremost authorities on obscure movies from the 60s and beyond, second only to the aforementioned young Jones.

They pull in one day, tires crunching on gravel, when the Twilight is advertising a showing of _For Whom the Bell Tolls_.

It’s not a movie either Cheryl or Jason have ever seen but they don’t bother to pay the Paramount Pictures classic much attention anyway. By the time Robert Jordan makes his way to the guerrilla camp, the Blossom twins have repaired to the back of their red Impala convertible and Jason does an admirable job of tearing off his sister’s red and black halter top in record time. They kiss, eager and hungry and the movie’s soundtrack fades into a comfortable, uniform white noise.

The rest of night is, in Cheryl’s recollection, a kaleidoscope of soft, shallow moans, Jason’s impossibly soft lips, his arms holding her close and yet not near close enough, and occasional flashes of Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman.

As for Jason, the evening is immortalized in Cheryl’s soft, creamy skin, flushed red under the moonlight. In the gentle swell of her hip beneath his tender hand. In her great, lovely brown eyes bright with desire and satisfaction. In her quiet, desperate breaths as he brings her to a much needed release.

They-and the movie-come to a finish at about 11 o’clock, though by that time the drive in is almost empty already. As the Blossom twins and the film’s third act draws to their respective climaxes, Robert Jordan is cut down by a shell from a Nationalist tank and prepares to make his impassioned last stand. On the other side of the screen, Cheryl and Jason Blossom lie, exhausted, in each other’s arms and wedged into the narrow backseat of the priceless convertible.

Jason looks to the movie, then back to his sister, and with a dorky smile on his face he asks; “’Did thee feel the earth move?’”

Cheryl purses her lips and rolls her eyes and considers whether or not to punch him because it’s undoubtedly one of the worst references ever made, all things considered.

“Did you just quote Hemingway at me?” He says nothing, but instead smiles and shrugs sheepishly. And then she rolls her eyes, and finishes the line. “’Yeah. As I died. Put your arm around me, please.’”

Of course, even the Twilight Drive-In is not entirely free from unwanted attention. Strung out Serpents have tried to sell them a variety of illicit substances more than once. Thankfully, they’re always either too high or too apathetic to wonder what the Blossom twins are doing crammed into the backseat of a car. There was also the time Jughead Jones emerged from the gloom and knocked on the Impala’s window and reminded them that it was closing time. Cheryl had never seen anyone move as fast as Jason pulling his hand from her shirt that night.

“Thanks Zodiac, we have a clock!” she’d snapped, and it was sure as hell a close call but Cheryl was pretty sure Jones didn’t actually see anything incriminating. Or at least, she’d like to hope so.

* * *

So the best place of all is the Sweetwater River. They have a meadow there, hidden from the roads and pathways by a near impenetrable patchwork of oaks and birch trees, so that for all practical purposes it’s accessible only by boat. The field stretches out, low and wide along a hefty stretch of the riverbank, always bright with green grass and flowers in a magnificent array of colors too unique to put names to. Every time they return there, Cheryl is afraid it’ll be spoiled. That there will be a candy wrapper, or a few crushed beer cans, or even some Riverdale students getting high after school. But every time, it’s just as pristine as they left it. As far as she can tell, they’re the only two souls even aware of its existence. And they’re more than happy to keep it that way.

Because it seems to be the _only_ place in their too-small world where they can enjoy even a taste of the privacy denied them everywhere else. The meadow was made just for them, Cheryl thinks. It’s beautiful bathed in golden sunlight, just as it’s breathtaking in the pale, ghostly rays of a full moon, or the dwindling glow of dusk.

The only thing that can enhance even such natural beauty for her is Jason.

One evening, the evening after their birthday, they row their boat through the river’s turbid waters, and they reach their meadow and her brother steps out and offers Cheryl his hand to help her ashore, and he looks so painfully handsome with his bright blue eyes and perfect red hair catching the moonlight, his broad shoulders and his full lips and his wonderful smile and it all makes Cheryl’s stomach flutter.

Then he put his arms around her waist and lift her off her feet, and she’ll feel weightless and laugh her beautiful laugh that makes him want to kiss her and do nothing but kiss her until the breath goes out of his lungs.

They collapse onto the soft carpet of grass and celebrate all the good of one more year together and let all of the bad dissolve into a cool evening breeze like ashes.

Cheryl runs her finger down the curve of Jason’s jaw line and traces the contours of his chest and the muscles of his arms, and she thinks he’s like a work of art created specifically for her. She wonders if she’s ever truly loved anyone else. She wonders if anything else even deserves to be called love next to the all-consuming adoration she has for her brother.

Jason holds her and his lips touch her tender flesh like a welcome fire and he says; “happy birthday, gorgeous” and tells her that she’s the most beautiful girl in the world. When he says it she can almost believe it. They hold hands, listening to the gentle whispering of Sweetwater and watching the stars in the heavens dance and play in the river’s soft swells. Somewhere in the depth of the woods the night birds sing and hoot their ancient songs. Leaves and grass and flowers bend and rustle in the breeze that would chill them too did they not have each other to keep them warm. And their meadow remains unspoiled, like a remnant of Eden reserved just for them. And it’s perfect.

“It’s all so beautiful,” she breathes at last.

And Jason says: “I could die here.”

“Out here?” Cheryl laughs. “The birds would find you before anyone from town did.”

He squeezes her hand.

“I meant with you.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Does this mean I have to share you now?” Cheryl pouts the first time Polly visits Thornhill. She spends the entire evening giving Jason’s poor girlfriend the evil eye until she finally says her goodbyes and steps out into a chilly Riverdale night. Then Cheryl turns to her brother and poses her question.

Jason smiles, despite the humorless frown on his sister’s face.

“No. Just…pass me back and forth, maybe?”

Cheryl leans her head into Jason’s chest.

“Not funny.”

“Hey.” Jason lifts his sister’s chin. He looks into her great brown doe eyes and feels a little bad. “You’re still my number one.” He bends down and she stands on the tips of toes. They meet in the middle and share a soft, conciliatory kiss.

Cheryl plants a hand on Jason’s chest.

“I’d better be,” she warns, wagging a finger. Finally she smiles.

But as the days and weeks go by these don’t exactly improve for Cheryl Blossom. Polly’s around more and more. When she’s not, Jason’s out of the house to go see her. And that really burns Cheryl. Jason’s hers. Not their mother’s, not their father’s, and certainly not Polly fucking Cooper’s. Hers. And she’s not about to have him stolen away by some blonde Barbie doll.

Jason returns from another late date with Polly one night. Thornhill is dark. The lights in the windows dim, and the ancient house sleeps. Except for Cheryl Blossom. She’s more than awake when her twin brother finally steps back through the door, hair disheveled, eyes bleary, and smelling of alcohol.

“Have fun with Polly?” Cheryl demands, spitting out the name as if it was poison on her tongue.

“Cher! Jesus, you scared the hell out of me.”

Cheryl looks her brother up and down, less than impressed. Her lips curl into a mean little sneer.

“Did she finally let you fuck her?”

“A little forward, don’t you think?”

“Fuck you! I’ll show you forward!” She snarls. Half-blinded by rage and frustration, she half embraces, half tackles her brother. Jason lets out a little cry of shock as Cheryl shoves him against the nearest wall and begins tearing away at his shirt. She crushes her lips against his.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Jason hisses in the loudest whisper possible. “What if mom or da-“

“Shut the fuck up,” Cheryl growls, silencing him with another vicious kiss. She bites and kisses and licks, leaving his pale skin painted with the bright red of her lipstick. Wiping away the vile traces of Polly Cooper. Purifying him. Marking him.

Giving in to Cheryl’s violent affections, Jason carries her up the stairs to his room. She undoes his pants, and hikes her skirts up around her waist, and she rides him until he can’t think straight anymore.

“Cher…fuck…” Jason gasps as she digs her fingernails into his shoulders and slides down onto his cock. It’s funny. He’s always so helpless in bed. Always completely at her mercy. Cheryl smiles.

“Jason,” she says, her voice sweet and cloying. “Do you love me?”

Jason places his hands on his sister’s bare hips, steadying her as she straddles him. He closes his eyes in rapture.

“Fuck…of course, baby.”

She allows him a few more seconds of heaven and then she speaks again.

“How much?”

“More than anything.”

“More than Polly?”

Cheryl doesn’t even break her rhythm as she asks the piercing question. She keeps bucking her hips against him, watching his face glow with delight every time he bottoms out inside of her. But he freezes up at her words. His beautiful blue eyes fly open.

“Cheryl, I…”

“Do you love me more than Polly?”

She claws at his shoulders as Jason thrusts into her again. He shudders with pleasure. Cheryl looks into his eyes, satisfied that she’s the only thing on his mind right now.

“Fuck! Yes! God, I do.”

“You do what?” She asks, triumphant.

“I love you…more than Polly.”

Cheryl grins in victory. A few more moments, and Jason finally climaxes. She arches her back as he spills his seed into her. They lie together, breathing heavy, soaked in sweat. As passion subsides and Jason’s mind clears, he is suddenly overcome with a deep sense of guilt over what he's said in the heat of the moment. He falls asleep that night, uneasy and troubled.

Cheryl, on the other hand, sleeps as well as ever, with a great, self-satisfied smirk on her face.


	4. Chapter 4

Cheryl turns the dial on her locker with numb, frozen fingers. The door rattles and she slides it open. Her heart constricts in her chest. Behind her, a sad little banner courtesy of Student Council advertises candygrams for sale in the cafeteria.

She knows now she shouldn’t have come to school today. Her eyes burn. She feels that same vile, slithering sensation in her gut that she felt all those months ago at the riverbank, and all the days since. Tears cling to her cheeks and lashes, and she tries to will her makeup to remain in place. She thanks God the hallway is mostly empty.

Cheryl stares into the gloom of her locker, neatly ordered in stacks of books and papers. It’s packed almost to bursting, and were it not for her superb organization skills the contents would come spilling out every time she opened the door.

And yet the locker is painfully, heartbreakingly empty.

* * *

By the time she’s thirteen, in the seventh grade, Cheryl has already attracted more than her fair share of young male admirers. Being middle schoolers, rarely do they have the courage to profess their undying love face to face. But they find other ways in their juvenile cleverness.

On Valentine’s Day, Cheryl’s locker is filled with anonymous cards covered in flamboyant red hearts and simplistic, boyish scrawl. Few of her admirers have the courage to sign their names or give any indication of their true identities at all. Some stamp their breathless stanzas with initials. More usually they are simply left blank.

She sifts through the gifts with a look of bemusement. One by one Cheryl crumples them in her hand and tosses them into a plastic bag destined for the third floor hallway garbage can.

Cheryl pulls one, nearly overlooked, from its place wedged in between the door and the frame of the locker. It’s a simple card, made from a doubly folded sheet of cream-colored construction paper. She gingerly opens it up to find a single short message written in bright red ink. Cheryl immediately recognizes it as her brother’s handwriting.

 _We have_ so _much more in common than DNA. Be my Valentine? Signed, J. Blossom._

Cheryl rolls her eyes. Then she giggles. She neatly refolds the card and slides it into her pocket.

“You’re such a dork!” She says after school, as she confronts Jason with the card, a big smile on her face. He takes the card back with a smile of his own.

“Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too, Cher.”

She punches him lightly in the arm. Then she leans in and puts her arms around him.

“You’re lucky, you know. It’s the only one I didn’t throw away.”

He laughs.

“I feel special.”

“No, I just have to be nice to you because you’re my brother.”

“So where’s _my_ Valentine’s Day card?”

Cheryl places her hands on his shoulders. She rises up on the balls of her feet and gently presses a kiss to Jason’s cheek. He flinches a little bit.

Jason can keep his face straight, but he can’t keep the hint of red from flooding into his cheeks. His mouth twitches. Cheryl smiles with self-satisfaction. She reaches out and takes her brother’s much larger hand in hers. She traces little circles over his wrist with her thumb, and feels his pulse quicken in response.

“There’s your card, stupid. Happy Valentine’s Day,” she says.

Next year is their first year of High School. That year, Cheryl tries out for the River Vixens and passes with flying colors. Jason makes it onto the Bulldogs with a little more effort. They melt, with a little difficulty, into the high school milieu. That’s the first year that Cheryl wears makeup. Jason has his first girlfriend, and his sister pretends for her sake and everyone else’s that she’s not jealous.

Cheryl has forgotten about last year’s incident when she opens her locker that Valentine’s Day. There aren’t so many surprises this time. It seems a good number of kids have become quite a bit less bold over the summer. She gets one from the ever-brazen Reggie Mantle that says ‘you+me=party’ which she’s pretty sure he bought at Walgreens. There are three more, unsigned and generally uninteresting.

The last one reads; _‘You want to know the best thing in my life?’_ In stark blue lettering against a black background. Cheryl preemptively rolls her eyes and opens it. The punch line is woven through the petals of a hand-drawn rose, given life in brilliant pastels; _It’s the first word of that question. Happy Valentine’s Day, Cher Bear._ She tries her best to be annoyed and keep a smile off of her lips. She fails. She shakes her head, folds the card back up, and slips it into the back of her locker.

“Oooh!” Cheryl starts at the sound of the voice and whirls around to confront Ginger Lopez, one of her new acquaintances from the team. “Someone gave you a card.”

“No–they did–no one–go away,” Cheryl sputters. “It’s nothing.” She slams her locker shut, double checks to make certain it’s locked tight, and then shuffles away down the hall. This time it’s her turn to flush red.

She finds Jason at lunch, waylaying him before he can join his friends in the Cafeteria. A hand on her hip, she presents him with the card.

“Oh? You liked it?” He asks, a roguish smile on his face.

“You’re so lame. It’s even worse than the one last year,” she says, biting her lip to keep from grinning.

He shrugs.

“Sounds to me like you liked it. I hope you got me one too, this year.”

Cheryl rolls her eyes.

She leans back against the nearest locker and crosses her arms.

“Sorry. You’re out of luck, dear brother.”

He takes a step closer to her. Her brother enjoyed a growth spurt over the summer, and much to Cheryl’s chagrin he now enjoys a good four-inch advantage in height over her.

“Ok.” The hallway is mostly empty, kids congregating mostly on the field and in the cafeteria for lunch. “Well, how about another kiss, then?”

“What would your _girlfriend_ say?” Cheryl teases. If he hears a hint of envy in her voice, it’s surely unintentional.

Jason tugs a strand of his sister’s ginger hair.

“Doesn’t count,” he says.

She places a hand softly on his arm to lean up and kiss him. He turns his aside to offer his cheek. To his shock, she moves with him and plants her kiss at that tender spot near the corner of his lips. Cheryl feels a little shiver go through her body. He stiffens. Jason’s big blue eyes go wide. He slowly pulls away, and she sees the ghostly imprint of her lips in faded red on his skin. He absentmindedly brings up a hand to touch it.

“You…might want to wipe that away.” Cheryl suggests.

“Right,” he mumbles.

She grips his arm and says; “Thanks for the card. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

The uncertain nervousness in his face vanishes. He hugs her then disappears to find his friends, leaving Cheryl alone in the hallway with a great smile on her face.

They don’t speak much for the rest of the day, and for a time Cheryl worries that an invisible but all-important line has been crossed. But the weeks go by, and soon enough all is forgotten, or at least accepted, and they are back to normal again. Whatever that is.

Next Valentine’s Day comes at an inopportune time.

Jason’s latest girlfriend (A girl on the squad whose name Cheryl made a conscious effort never to learn, so that she could smilingly ask ‘sorry, what’s your name, again?’ every time they interacted) breaks up with him four days ahead of the Holiday. He insists (and it’s probably true) that she only did so because breaking up right afterwards would have been even crueler, but it doesn’t stop Cheryl from insisting she’s a cruel, awful bitch who never deserved her brother to begin with (the fact that she says that about all of his girlfriends notwithstanding).

If it bothers Jason much, he doesn’t show it. He never cries or mopes or pines, and seems perfectly content to be a bachelor again.

If anything, Cheryl is more upset than he is. How _dare_ that bitch? _She_ should have been glad to have _him_ , not the other way around. Ungrateful bitch. Cheryl, in the sadistic fashion that is increasingly expected from her, makes life in the River Vixens a little harder for Jason’s unfortunate ex.

When Valentine’s Day rolls around, Cheryl doesn’t really expect to find anything in her locker. Of course, she does. Only one this time. It seems the other boys have given up at last.

She retrieves the card. It’s the most ornate one yet, and handmade, too. The black paper is colored in what looks like marker, woven together in soft, organic shapes that suggests beating hearts, or perhaps a river’s current. Red, green, orange, and blue. In smooth cursive handwriting near the bottom is the assignment; _To Cheryl Marjorie Blossom._ She smiles and opens it.

Inside the card is a little verse.

_Roses are red_

_Violets are blue_

_My girlfriend may have left me_

_But at least I’ve still got you_

As is custom, Cheryl rolls her eyes and smiles.

She confronts Jason with the card later that day.

“So I’m your backup? Is that it?” She teases.

“No. You’re my constant.”

She hugs him.

They sit in the parking lot, that day after school. Jason touches the wheel, but doesn’t start it. It’s the first year they’ve been trusted with any of the Blossom family’s cars themselves, and the twins are still a little uneasy. Jason taps his fingers on the dashboard.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Yeah, it’s just…uh…” He stops, then reaches beneath the seat and produces a brown paper bag. Peeling it back, he reveals two bottles of red wine. “I’d gotten ahold of them for me and…you know…but uh…” Cheryl raises her eyebrow. “Do you want to go drink a little somewhere? Before we go home?”

She smiles.

“Sure. Her loss.

They drive up to a little promontory looking out over Sweetwater River, and take turns sipping from the bottles of wine, scrunching up their faces and pretending they like it, as kids do.

After two thirds of the first bottle of wine are depleted, Cheryl finds herself staring up at the stars, eyes burning as she refuses to blink.

“Wu–we can’t drive home like this,” she slurs.

“Sure I can,” Jason says. 

Cheryl collapses across his chest and laughs.

“No you can’t. And I–not…not…neither–I won’t let you.”

Jason closes his eyes.

 "Shit.” He opens them and finds his sister sprawled over him, smiling giddily, head swimming with the wine. “You–you’re so pretty. Tonight,” he mutters.

 “I know,” she says.

“You’re the prettiest girl in school,” he goes on. “Sorry. I just wanted to tell you that for a while.”

“Tell me more,” Cheryl giggles. She takes another sip of wine.

“You want to hear a secret?”

“Sure,” She says, coyly.

“I’m kindo–shit, kinda glad she broke up with me, honestly. I rather have you here.”

Cheryl smiles triumphantly.

“Hmmm. I _am_ a bit more fun, aren’t I?”

“Hey,” Jason says, with a hazy smile.

“Hmm?”

“Where’s my kiss?”

“Excuse me?” Cheryl asks, in mock indignation.

“I gave you your Valentine’s card, I get a kiss, right? Isn’t that our tradition?”

“Oh.” Cheryl feels her heart and face burning pleasantly with the alcohol. “Here’s your kiss.” She leans in and presses her lips to her brothers. He returns the kiss without a moment’s hesitation. Cheryl climbs into his lap, settling in and cupping his face in her hands. She’s never kissed anyone like this. Not really. It’s a lovely feeling. Soft and tender and passionate. She doesn’t’ want to stop. Jason places his hands on her hips to steady her.

They spend almost the entire night that way, kissing furtively in that awkward, hesitant way kids do. Testing themselves, deciding what feels right and what doesn’t.

“God, I love you so much, Cheryl," Jason says, as she cradles his tired head in her arms. “You’re so–you’re my angel,” he sighs, all starry eyes and boyish romance.

“Not quite,” she smiles. “More of a morally ambiguous she-devil, I’d say.” But he doesn’t catch her joke, because in a moment, he’s fast asleep.

Cheryl is terrified the next day that they’ve destroyed their bond forever, and that the previous night would haunt them to their graves. But that doesn’t happen. Though for the next year, they hardly touch each other in any untoward way, their love never for a moment wanes or falters.

Next Valentine’s Day, Cheryl leaves English class with lines from Hamlet still swirling about in her head. The bard haunts her day in and day out and even follows her into her dreams, as he does all of her classmates. She reaches her locker, hardly thinking about the holiday at hand. She barely notices the card at first.

But this one is the best yet.

She opens it up to find a drawing of herself, rendered lovingly light, cool tones. The portrait’s eyes are turned away, staring off at something in the distance. She mentally traces the lines of her eyes and nose and lips, breath hitching in her throat. Next to the likeness, written in a sharp, florid hand, is another line of very familiar verse:

_Doubt thou the stars are fire_

_Doubt thou the sun doth move_

_Doubt truth to be a liar_

_But never doubt I love_

She takes the drawing to her brother as soon as she gets a moment, too overwhelmed too summon any of her trademark snark.

“Jason, it’s so–“

“I didn’t draw it, just so we’re clear,” he quickly clarifies. “Chuck did it. I stood over his shoulder the whole time and made sure he did you justice, though. Which is…hard to do.”

Cheryl throws her arms around him.

“You dumbass. I love you.”

He smoothes her hair and presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“Love you more. Happy Valentine’s Day, beautiful.”

“Are mom and dad going to be home, tonight?” Cheryl asks, squeezing his hand.

“I don’t think so, why?”

“Because…I think I’d rather just stay in with you then go anywhere tonight,” she says. “Just the two of us.”

“Sounds fun.” He smiles.

And so they do.

“I’m going to give you your Valentine’s Day kiss,” Cheryl purrs, when her brother inquires where she’s taking him. She drags him into her bedroom and throws him back onto the bed and then climbs on with him, pulling his shirt away and running a hand down his chest. Jason returns the gesture, and she feels his hungry, eager fingers against the tender skin of her legs and stomach and breasts. He kisses her deeply.

They spend the night together, laughing and talking and enjoying each other.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Cheryl sighs, as she lies curled up next to her brother, moonlight cutting down through the gossamer curtains and across their bodies.

He takes one of her hands in his and kisses her knuckles.

* * *

 

Cheryl kneels before her brother’s grave, cold and silent. An appropriately miserable rain has just ended, leaving the grass speckled with dew and the granite markers dripping wet. She closes her eyes and lets the tears roll down her cheeks. Her chest aches. She presses her trembling fingertips to the austere stone of the tomb. She traces the carved name and dates. Her body trembles with sobs.

She leans forward. Her lips touch the freezing granite.

“I didn’t forget your Valentine’s kiss.” She runs her hand down the face of the grave, grief gnawing at her heart. Her chest aches with crushing, unbearable pain. “I never forgot," she sobs. "I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day


End file.
